The cliffs of insanity
by 2cute
Summary: The man in black Wesley is climbing the cliffs of insanity after his true love.Please R&R.T. for later violence
1. Chapter 1

**The usual disclaimers apply**

The wind howled and his muscles burned. A thousand feet above the surface of the ocean,

a tiny figure utterly dwarfed by the monument of stone beside him, struggled fiercely to match his will against that of the giant cliff face.

The man in black had been pulling himself up the thick hemp rope for what seemed an eternity,

His hands ached and he was already so tired. And still he continued to climb.

How could a man hope to overcome such a monster of an obstacle he wondered silently to himself? Just how much further could he really go?

How long would it be until his tendons began to tear, his limbs gave way, or his mind could

no longer bear the constant strain of knowing that at any moment he could slip and fall

to his death.

He knew that this is why they had come to this place, and this is why it had earned its name.

The cliffs of insanity.

Most people simply would not have made it this far, but he was not like most people.

If anyone knew what it was like to live in constant fear of violent death, it was him.

How many nights aboard that pirate ship had he lain awake for not knowing if he would

die the following morning? How many weeks had passed without him knowing what was to become of him? How many months?

In a way the farm boy really had died aboard that ship, but like the phoenix of old legends, something new had risen. The boy was gone now and in its place was left a man. A man capable of inconceivable acts in the name of love. Now he was the man in black.

**Don't worry. Doesn'tstop there. Hope you enjoyed it. **

**2cute **


	2. Chapter 2

I hope this isn't to confusing for anyone, but I'm going to try and write flashbacks or fill-ins for parts of the story that we never saw in the movie. That way I can keep re-telling the story we know but adding to it as well. Hope u enjoy it!

Chapter 2

Sweat pooled behind his mask and ran down his face, blurring his vision.

He ignored it.

The back of his neck burned from constant exposure to the sun.

He ignored it.

Strong gusts of wind clawed at his clothing and lashed his cheeks with loose dirt that had fallen from the cliff face.

He ignored it.

He retightened his grip on the massive rope, hearing his leather gloves creaking in protest, and continued to haul his body upward as quickly as he could.

He would resist far worse things than these for her; they were trivial when compared to the force that drove him. True love would give him the strength to overcome them, just as it was giving him the strength to climb this rope with unmatched speed.

The problem was not one of will power he had been given more of that than he could ever imagine existed. Nor was it a problem of fitness as he had almost superhuman stamina from years of sword play and adventure on the high seas, although that too was being pushed to the limit by this vast effort, and would surly pay the price for it. No his biggest problem was that he was afraid of heights.

Mentally this was really starting to take its toll. At first he had managed to keep it locked away, held at bay by his conscious thoughts, but eventually it had started to brake free again, and now it was trying to consume him. His mind was in a constant state of vertigo that threatened to overwhelm him. The vastness of the void bellow

Seemed to beckon to him, draw him from the rope, making him feel as though he was already falling. He shook his head violently to try to clear it, but with no success.

He had tried so hard to develop every facet of himself so he would be prepared to deal with anything that stood between him and happiness with his sweet Buttercup, but what was the one thing he could not alter about himself?. His phobia of heights. And what was the one first thing fate had thrown at him? Why a cliff so large it had been known to send people insane. 'Just typical really' he muttered beneath the shrieking of the wind.

He would not be defeated by this, he would find a way to beat it.

In order to survive the present, he turned his thoughts to the past. Westly's mind pealed back the years to expose memories of another time, and another more peaceful life……

-Flashback-

A gentle breeze pushed waves into the surrounding fields of wheat, the stalks made golden and amber as the sun began its inevitable plunge towards the horizon. Westly the farm boy sat atop the old and weathered stock fence, made centuries before his birth, cut from a forest that no longer even existed. He sat and watched. All his attention on the lithe figure sitting on the chestnut mare that galloped along the nearby hillock. He drank in the sight, enjoying every moment.

He must be the luckiest guy on earth he realised, because even with her hair tangled by the wind Buttercup was probably the most beautiful girl alive, made even more so by the natural beauty surrounding her, and he alone was the one able to sit hear watching. How did he ever get so lucky, he didn't care, all he knew was he would not trade places with anyone in the kingdom right now, this sight was more valuable than the kings whole treasury.

The mare raced along and down the slope slightly to the edge of the woods where Westly could see the horses magnificent muscles bunching and uncoiling at Buttercups command, taking them around hidden obstacles and over fallen branches.

The power and speed of the animal betraying its good breeding, and the way that it responded to her slightest touch showed that a bond had formed between them over the years. Westly knew this to be the result of Buttercups gentle and caring nature that she showed not just to the mare, but to all the animals on the farm.

At last the trees leaves began to loose their colour as the final rays of the sun played upon them, and horse and rider headed for home. He watched her approach swiftly then dismount with an ease that would make the most veteran riders envious. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and walked toward him.

He lowered his gaze and fought to control his breathing as his heart began to pound in his chest, just like it always did when she was close to him. Even the simple farmers clothes could barley conceal her gorgeous figure as she stood there before him, he doubted even wearing a potato sack would hide it. A slight smile played across his lips, this being the only sign of the overwhelming urge he felt to take her into his arms.

'Take my horse to the stable, boy, and be sure to give it a good rub down. Also oil my riding boots, I want them ready by morning." She said as she slipped out of the boots and began to walk barefoot back to the farmhouse.

'As you wish' was his only reply to the retreating form.

He did not take offence to her brisk manor, he knew why she acted the way she did. Her parents were dead now, and she was the lady of the house, so she had to act like it. That was why she called him 'boy' and only ever treated him in a way that constantly reminded him that he was a servant.

She could not allow anyone to see her as anything but the boss and owner of the farm, if they treated like the little girl she still was, her already tenuous grip on the situation would be shattered. She had to stay in control of it all. If she lost the farm she would have lost everything. It was the only thing that she had left of her former life, and all that she had left from her parents.

Since her father was gone, westly had to do the extra work load, Buttercup had offered to pay him double, but he refused. They both knew that she could not afford it. And so he worked hard from dawn till dusk every day and she did her best to keep it all in order. She never questioned him as to why he was willing to stay and help her so much, perhaps she didn't know?

His feelings for her had grown steadily over the time he had known her, all those years ago when he first took on work at the farm. It wasn't just her looks that had attracted him (although they did drive him wild most of the time), she was just such a queer girl that he couldn't help but find her interesting. It was those same peculiar little traits that made her mysterious and so unique, he could never quite figure her out, she dressed like a tom boy and yet she walked like a model.

In any case he would not leave her. Her world had been turned upside down and he was the only constant that remained. Even though his feelings for her had completely blossomed into a true and passionate love, he would not tell her. She needed him to be the farm boy now more than ever. One day when she was ready, she would see how he felt. Until then he would wait.

Westly picked up the boots and led the horse back the stable were he slept. He was tired from the days work. His hands were blistered and his arms were heavy.

-End Flashback-

….his hands were blistered and his arms were heavy. The man in black continued to move quickly, hand over hand, pulling himself up towards the kidnappers.

He was near the top now and so he risked a glance upward, despite the vertigo. His prey were scrambling over the top and he knew he was in trouble; he had to get up there as fast as he could before they could take advantage of his vulnerable position. Gritting his teeth he forced himself to try harder.

(Meanwhile at the top)

3 solum heads peered over the edge of the largest cliff know to man in, and watched the scene below in amazement. A man, a _normal_ man was climbing up after them. How was this so? Everybody knew that only giants could hope to have the strength and stupidity to climb this particular rope and survive. Apparently not _everybody _knew. Someone had forgotten to tell this guy.

(Back on the cliff face)

The rope suddenly went slack in his hands. Countless armed conflicts as the dread pirate Roberts had given him the reflexes of a jungle cat, and he put those to good use now. The rope continued to fall away beside him as his hands shot out in a blur of motion and found holds on the almost sheer rock in front of him. Nice move he thought to himself. Ruthless but also very effective. It gave him an insight to the people he would face when he got to the top.

A tinny avalanche of equally tinny rocks fell into his knee high black boots, as his feet scrambled to find purchase bellow him. When he had finally achieved this he took a short moment to relax and rest his arms. They would be too stunned at him still being alive to try anything else just yet he thought.

Have to hurry now. He repositioned his feet higher and pushed upwards with his legs until he could reach new hand holds, using them to do the work rather than his arms. He knew that his thigh muscles were much larger than his arms already heavily fatigued bicep muscles, and so it was better to use them to get him to the top.

His arms began to tremble just then, now that they were not in constant use. He caught snippets of conversation from above. It seems he now had to face their swordsman when he reached the top. A Blademaster by the sounds of it. And yet he could barely stop his arms from shaking. 'This should be interesting' he said quietly to no one in particular.

Summoning an inner reserve of strength from his body, he continued climbing towards what he knew would be the fight of his life. Strange as it was, he could almost sense the man's skill from here. He had very little chance of winning he realised just then, but then again he had little chance of overcoming the cliff also.

If he could make his opponent believe that he was still in perfect shape to fight, he might gain a slight psychological edge. One thing was for sure, if he was to be beaten down, he would not go down easily.

To be continued….

Author's notes: why bother, No one actually reads this bit do they?


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of steel on steel echoed through the still morning air.

It was a haunting sound, cooling the blood in a way that the temperate air could not. It was a sound that could still be felt long after the noise had left the ears because it carried with it a prelude to furious action.

Both men stood in age old positions.

Tactical stances practiced so precisely and so often that they were as natural as walking, as natural as breathing.

The Spaniard shifted his weight.

The man in black raised the point of his sword.

The Spaniard lunged low with his rapier into the newly exposed area.

The man in black, anticipating the attack blocked low and countered with a rolling back handed slash to the throat. The Spaniard swayed away from the cut, unharmed.

Again they faced each other, motionless in the metallic echo.

Appraisals were made, mutual respect was established. The man in black had formerly been the Dread Pirate Roberts a man whose life was unceasingly plunged into a world of cunning deceit and calculated violence. He had fought more duels than was healthy for a man of his age and had the scars to prove it. The Spaniard was no stranger to the sword; he had been driven by vengeance since childhood to learn all he could about fencing. As a teen he had been a live-in student at the infamous Salle D'Armes in Florence, graduating a Blade master. Since then he had lived the life of a sword for hire, ever sharpening his skills in preparation for the day he would meet the man who murdered his father.

Yet despite their backgrounds they were not what you would call aggressive men. Anger had no place here, neither one would shout or curse at the other. They were men of action not words and their swords would speak for them. Strangely neither man wished the other ill intent, they had sat calmly side by side and talked. But the conflict had to be resolved. They would settle this encounter the way they had been trained: with a skilled hand and a sharp mind.

Motion exploded between them. Tongues of silver darted forward and back between them in an intricate pattern, cutting deeply into the haze of dust raised from the furious movement of their boots.

Dust clung to the back of his throat and his mouth was dry. Wesley allowed himself to pant a little now. He was almost spent from the climb but had managed not to show it. The Spaniard was good. He was better than good he was _deadly. _But loosing to this man meant loosing his true love, and that just wasn't an option.

Indigo was both delighted and frustrated. This dark crusader was matching him move for move. Not since simultaneously dueling his instructors in Florence had he felt so unsure of the outcome, he realized then that he had spent too long in the company of the wine bottle. As much as he admired this mysterious man he had to defeat him, his father's killer must be found and made to pay the price. That could only happen if he was alive to do it. He tightened the grip on his father's sword.

The boulders and rocks sat clustered around them like an audience struck silent with anticipation.

The orange yellow glow of the broken dawn splashed across the very tops of the ruins around the combatants, and rolled slowly down the crumbling spires like a mixture of liquid amber and fresh honey. To a close observer it was easy to see that the stone that made up the ruins were not from around here. Few would know however that they had been transported halfway around the world by an ancient fleet to this site, to make what was centuries ago a magnificent Stronghold. Its walls were legendary and its workmanship unsurpassed in its time. This combined with the natural defense of the knee watering cliffs at its sides made it a military out post of no small consequence.

Long before these stones became mere rubble, this Stronghold gave rise to a thriving and prosperous town. The walls its people were not always drab grey, they once were full of intricate carvings of far off lands and white washed to make the whole lot gleam as if it was all carved from a single huge piece of marble. The proficiency of its soldiers and its nearness to the common trade routes made this a favorite meeting place for merchants to exchange payments, making the local markets rich with the finest fabrics and the rarest spices. The streets were lined with fruit trees and from the roofs of peoples hoses hung baskets of flowers from all parts of the globe.

But of course this little slice of paradise could not last. Word got out about the riches that were often held here. Greed was the eventual down fall of this mighty Stronghold. Not the greed from its citizens, the families that lived here felt blessed. Not greed from its soldiers, they were all well disciplined troops and content to be posted in a place that could protect their family's and provide for them so well. It was the greed and envy of the neighboring city that caused this place to fall.

Its walls could fend of great armies but it was powerless to stop the corrupt hearts of men.

A thief was sent ahead of the invasion. His task, drug the town's water supplies. It was an easy mission. He blended in with the midday markets crowd; his slight of hand skills enabled him to drop a small container into the large public well. Later that night the neighboring city sent a contingent of its best troops headed by the Captain of the City guard to share meals and wine with the off duty soldiers. They were of course welcomed in freely, the multiple gates closing solidly behind them. No one suspected a thing. That night the town was attacked from the inside. The drug had taken affect leaving people drowsy and disorientated, there reactions slow and sluggish.

The alarm was eventually raised but too late. By the time the bell had stopped ringing it was over. The Stronghold took a decade to build and one night to burn. After the invasion and fire no one returned to rebuild. The sound of the name of this former oasis by the sea came to represent to too many, all that was wrong with the world. What remained quickly fell into disrepair. Stone masons began to quarry the high grade granite for use in new houses, and what was left was soon reduced to ruins by the winds and storms from the ocean.

Wesley's mask felt gritty and the muscles in his arms felt tight. As it turned out _neither_ of them were left handed. What are the _odds_ of _that? _Wesley thought absently to himself. He would have shaken his head in sympathy for his backfired strategy but he didn't have the time. Once he found a way to beat this mans sword, he had a giant to overcome, a genius to outthink a princess to rescue and a country to flee. It was going to be a busy day. And to top it all off he had another stone in his boot. Great.

Indigo was seriously beginning to doubt his ability to finish this fight the way he had intended. At first he thought this man would be easy to dispatch because of the exertion of climbing the cliffs. Ever since they had crossed swords however this man's form and style were steadily growing stronger. He thought at first it was just a ploy to cover the man's weakened state but now he had the feeling that the man was just toying with him from the beginning. It was a _very_ intimidating thought.

Indigos own steps now became ever so slightly less sure and his attacks ever so slightly more desperate. This man seemed immortal; he just couldn't see himself winning. His resolve was breaking. It was the start of a downward spiral he knew well. He had caused a many swords to fall much the same way years ago.

-Flashback-

Indigo lay dozing on the tavern table not quite awake and not yet asleep. His minds eye drifted over images of his youth. His father standing amidst a field of wild flowers between their family's house and his father's metalworking forge by the stream. The azure sky broken here and their, with iridescent white clouds. His father looked down into his young clear eyes and smiled that enigmatic smile he often wore when they were alone together.

'We have done well this time eh little indigo?' his fathers voice thick with timbre and accent.

Slowly and great skill his father pulled their latest creation from the scabbard at his hip. Sunlight played along the mark-less rapier blade as he deftly swung the point to the ground. He brought it to a quick and complete stop just under the head of a wildflower, severing the stem. The deep blue-purple flower head balanced perfectly on the flat of the blade. It was the same type of flower that dominated the field in spring and the same type of the flower that his mother had named him after.

'See little indigo even the flowers dance at the beauty of this one's craftsmanship' his father flipped the flower head lightly into the air again and again each time swapping the sides of blade it landed on. Such was the gentleness of his father's movements that the dewdrops in the centre of the flower never spilled out over the petals. The young indigo laughed with delight at seeing the flower 'dance'.

Finally his father stopped and tilted the blade point down towards indigos palm. Indigo watched as the angle caused the dewdrops to spill out onto the blade, the flower the slipping down the water trail into his awaiting hand.

'We mustn't let the flower go to waste eh? Take it to your mother little Indigo so she can wear it in her hair. I have to finish the general's sword.'

Young Indigo stood still and watched his father's retreating form for a few precious moments then turned and ran to the house, both hands cupping the flower for his mother.

...his mother smells like a hamster!' rancorous laughter rang throughout the tavern as Indigo lifted his head from the wooden table, his ebony locks falling back onto his shoulders. The room was full of fishermen and farmers, sharing drinks and friendly insults. 'At least I know who my mother is!' came the reply from the other side of the room, followed by more drunken laughter.

Just then the tavern door burst open and a pale faced and mud streaked messenger stood looking about, holding himself up on very shaky legs. The room went quiet under his desperate gaze and the Barkeep spoke up ' what's the matter man?'

The messenger at first looked beyond words but then blurted out in a tiny voice ' their coming!'

'Who?' Persisted the Bar keeper. All eyes once again turned to the messenger.

'...marauders! Their coming ...here!' he all but whispered in the quiet room.

Blank looks were traded among the crowd

'Maraudersare coming! HERE!' he finally boomed and promptly disappeared back out into the cold night air. Suddenly every one felt very sober.

Marauders were the name given to a large gang of desperate men that had been pillaging up and down the coast. Well equipped from raiding the recent battlefields to the north, they stuck fear even into the towns that didhave troops garrisoned at them, unlike this one.

Chaotic action flared throughout the room as the Barkeep banged an empty cup on the bar to get everyone's attention. 'Get your family's in here! Your families will be safer if you get them here and take them upstairs! 'Frantic husbands and fathers fled out into the night to gather up their loved ones. Travelers grabbed nearby belongings and started heading up stairs. What the Barkeep said made sense and everyone knew it, the tavern was three stories tall and made of stone unlike the village's other houses and buildings that were all ground level and made of wood.

Indigo sat amid the flurry of people and looked around slowly. It appeared he was the only one left wearing a sword. All the others that he had seen with swords had somehow vanished. Indigo's hand shot out to his left with a speed that defied his drunken state and clasped down hard onto the arm beside him. The arm that was holding onto the neck of the rum bottle._ His _rum bottle. He turned to face the culprit who happened to be a _very _sneaky looking young man. The young man that had snuck up behind him leant across the table and tried to steal his rum before disappearing to safety. The cheek! Indigo stared at him for a long moment. It was enough. The young man grinned sheepishly, sensibly let go of the rum and ran off up stairs with the others.

Soon enough the common room was empty, the townsfolk safely upstairs. Indigo put his bottle on the counter and began to move the tables and chairs around, clearing a long narrow section in front of the main door. Blocking the doorway would only slow the marauders down not stop them. If the tyrants got position of the ground floor they could burn the building from the inside out or just simply starve them out. Indigo knew that the only chance these people had was to defend this door way, and that the only person who could do it was him.

Fezzick and Vizzini would still be away for he didn't know how long, he being left behind to guard the horses. It was up to him alone.

With the chairs and tables like this they could only come at him three or four at a time, small enough odds for him to defeat considering the superiority of his skills. The only question was how long did he have to keep it up? How many men would they loose before they decided the risk was no longer worth the reward? Soon he would find out. He took a final look around nodding to himself, lent back against the table behind him, crossed his arms and waited.

It didn't take long.

A single man in ragged clothes and hodgepodge amour bust through the door with a broad cutlass. Indigo looked at him with eyes as steel-like as the sword at his hip. "You will kill no women and children today" he spoke quietly, his arms still crossed. The man stepped back startled then looked around. Finding no one else in the room he smiled and lunged forward with his cutlass, murder in his dark eyes.

A whisper of sound as Indigo's sword cleared from his scabbard and found its mark with lightning speed. The flat of the blade cracking hard against the man's wrist, he yelled, dropped the sword and ran out.

Shouting followed, shouting and curses as the vagabonds assembled somewhere outside realized that all the houses and buildings were empty. All but one, so told them a man holding his wrist painfully.

Three marauders quickly entered the room, and were quickly disarmed. Minor cuts and bruises but enough to stop them from fighting. Morosely they retreated and were replaced with more. Two with cutlasses and one with a spear and shield. Indigo studied them for a moment then faked an advance. They rushed to meet him, he coolly steeped back disarmed them the first swordsman, who through fear stood stock still, the others cannoning into him and all falling to a great heap to the floor. The spear was poking out from in between them at a funny angle so Indigo quickly cut it into pieces the size of kindling. It took a while for the men to untangle and lift their heavily armored and badly battered bodies from the floor. During this time Indigo went back to leaning against the table again, arms crossed his sword sticking up from the wooden floor close by.

They fought all through the remainder of the night.

Indigo's skills enabled him to disarm or wound many but on occasion they pressed in on him and he had to do more. Many lives upstairs were at stake and he would do anything to stop the marauders from inflicting vile acts upon them. It's what his father would have done.

In time the deep red light of dawn spilled through the open doorway and onto Indigo's sweat drenched face. "Red light at morning Shepard's warning" he mumbled to himself. He was exhausted. How many more were left? He looked down to his right hand; it was shaking ever so slightly under the weight of the sword. He had to end this he realized just then. If he didn't they would.

They had to know how tired he was, how close they were to victory. One last chance he thought.

Break their resolve. Make them surrender.

The Captain of the marauders was an evil looking man. He cocked his crossbow with a click and loaded one of the precious few bolts he had. The men around him were skittish, looking at each other and at the door way to the stone building nervously. None of them were soft men, most murderers and thieves, but all of them scared. He bellowed a curse at them and called one over to him, his second in command, the smallest but also the most vicious. They would go in there and shoot the man dead, take what ever they could and go. They couldn't stay here much longer, without the cover of night they were easy pickings for a military patrol.

Indigo wiped the sweat from his face and stiffened his composure. After a few deep breaths he headed out of the doorway.

The bolt fired from the crossbow tore clean through his shoulder and lodged in the outer wall of the tavern Indigo paused then turned to face the crowd. 'My name is Indigo Montoya, I cannot be killed by mortals until my fathers death is avenged' he stepped over a small pile of bodies towards the crowd and stared at them. 'Drop your swords or forfeit your lives' he demanded coldly.

40 men dropped their swords to the cold earth and fled into the forest.

The captain of the marauders looked around left and right, he was alone. He slung his crossbow over his shoulder and jogged off after his men. His bluff had worked, they thought he was unstoppable.

He waited a decent interval then staggered over to a nearby wall. Slumped heavily against it and slid till he has sitting on the ground. His eyes closed. Time passed.

It could have been minutes or hours before he heard Fezzick's booming voice.

'Indigo? Did you win?'

Followed by Vizzini's.

"Look at all the swords on the ground, you Neanderthal, look at all the bodies! Of course he won!"

Indigo opened his eyes and smiled.

"Fezzick. It is good to see you. Have you seen my rum?"

-End flashback-


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: none of the princess bride characters belong to me… I'm not that creative.**

The deck swayed beneath his knees on the vast Atlantic swirl. He looked down at his hands; clenched so tight they were white. The splintered and twisted remains of the main mast scrapped back and forth and somewhere near him an iron ball rolled amongst the fallen bodies with the changing pitch of the ship. Black acrid smoke curled into the air driven forth by the scattering of heated shot imbedded through out the hull. Even the normally fresh ocean breeze was now tainted with the aftermath of war. He continued to stare at his hands. Clenched. White.

His ears rang with the sounds of conflict so recently passed. His mind still reeled from it. Steal on steal. Iron on bone. Metal on wood. His mind burned with the sounds. His hands so tightly clenched his fingernails cut into his palms. Small droplets of red spattered onto the weathered wood, instantly swept up by a pool of still hot oil that flowed around him on the deck, scorching his knees. The pain bringing him quickly out of the super clear realm of his memory and into the hard world around him. He raised his head. Dark shapes were scattered all over the deck.

No one stirred. No one groaned. Only he remained.

Wreckage littered the ship. A full and deliberate broadside had battered and burned its way through the world beneath his knees. Heated shot, boiling oil, balls of iron, ballista fire and yard hooks. Nothing was held back, the two ships had even collided hulls with fear inspiring power, each trying to ram the other beneath the waves. The deck and rigging of the merchant ship he had come to know so well was torn apart before his very eyes. Men had fallen. So many men.

Sea swirl pitched the ship. A heavily dented helmet clattered close by his side. It stayed there for a time, his eyes fixed on it before it the swell rose again and it clattered away. Above him a sheet of sail was rented free from the mangled rigging, slowly he lifted his gaze skyward to watch it float silently away into the foul wind. Twisting with it was a snaking black trail of smoke. He looked down at his hands. He was still alive. Slowly his hands uncurled. _Still alive. _He got mechanically to his feet.

He walked slowly and exhaustedly across the length of the ship. He searched yet there was no one else. Alive and_ alone._

Alone on a ship in the middle of a vast ocean. Not even a ship, just a shadow of a ship. It would have taken weeks of hard sailing with a full crew to make land again. Now there was only a crew of one. He could take no more his strength was gone. He realized then he was going to die. It was going to be his last day and he was so alone. Just then a cold wind from the south, swept across the ruined deck, blasted against his numb body, as if to emphasize his own gloomy thoughts. He turned to look at the vast gray cloudbank hanging silently on the horizon, the thunderheads were huge. He looked at the monstrous ship crushing waves beneath and into the building storm beyond. Now there was no doubt. He would not survive. She would never see his body as it was dragged under into the liquid deep. He would never see her smile again. She would never see his. He couldn't even tell her goodbye.

A long peel of thunder cracked through the air so loud it rattled the anchor chain that lay sprawled upon the deck. He wanted to tell her all the things he should have but hadn't, to talk to her just once more. Hold her just once more. He wanted it so much. In defeat Wesley dropped again to his knees. There was no more hope for them, it was gone. Had failed her. Symmetrical tears flowed over his cheeks. 'Please' he whispered 'I need to live'. There was no one left to hear him.

From high up the gigantic storm front watched as the tiny and insignificant ship was swallowed up beneath it.

The light of the full moon streaked across the dusty floor and splashed onto the old oak table. It flowed up the earth red vase in the middle of the table. A single withered flower in it. It raced past the table and up the side of the chair beside it. It shone radiantly against the fair hair of the beautiful Buttercup who sat in that chair, but it was wasted on her. It might as well have been pitch black. Inside she was as withered as the flower in the vase. She stared blankly at the space beside her door. The space where his boots should have been but were not. Where they would never be again.

She continued to stare at the door, motionless, one side lit with silvery moonlight the other in darkness. The thoughts running through her head were much the same. Some shinning brightly, some dark as night.

It happened a week after he left.

She missed him like crazy and had decided to sleep in the hayloft in the barn were he usually slept. Waking at the crack of dawn she had dressed in one of the shirts he left behind. She buried her face in its collar. Even though it was clean it still smelt like him. She loved that smell, just like she loved him. It was too large for her coming down to just above her knees, his tall lean frame being much bigger than her own. It made her laugh and she wished he were here to laugh at her too. She practically danced around the paddock in the cool morning breeze amongst the emerald grasses and the golden wheat stalks, feeding the animals, the shirt trailing behind her in the wind.

It was a long and dusty road between here and the city and the messenger would be sorely parched. She invited him in for a drink but he refused. He pulled forth a letter and handed it to her. He seemed very skittish, the way a horse was before a storm. He excused himself and hurried back down the way he had come. She didn't notice him. Even now her heart pounded, adrenalin surged, even now before she opened the letter. She broke the red wax seal of the justice department on the back. Her heart broke with it.

Red, the color of warning, the color of blood.

Inside the envelope was Wesley's death certificate. The cause of death: murder by piracy. She read it and re read it, couldn't make sense of it, and couldn't accept it. Her Wesley would be coming back soon. A month of work at sea and they could afford the marriage tax. It must be a mistake. Her Wesley wouldn't leave. He promised he wouldn't. They had made so many plans together, why would he leave her?

That's how it had happened. Now she sat here. Alone. Empty.

'Boat ahoy, 4 points nor ward' came the call from the crow's nest.

The first mate raised his spyglass to the dark floating shape that had just nudged its way over the still horizon. 'Alert the captain' he called behind him without lowering the glass. There was hardly enough left to call it a boat he thought to himself.

The Captain stood by as the boarding party ran out and secured the gangplank between the two ships. Once in place he strode across. His pikemen one-step behind, spreading out around him, simultaneously securing against ambush and searching for survivors. They needed no orders they were all veterans of many campaigns and had done it a thousand times before. This ship must have made it through the storm the Captain realized, some what astonished.

Large patches of charred wood from repeated lightening strikes gave grim testimony to the severity of the storm. Not a single mast had survived intact; all had been struck, burst and shattered by the fire from the sky. The small amount of wreckage that had not been claimed by the sea was clustered before him in the center of the warped and battered decking. As he stared at it a coil of heavy rope fell aside.

A hand rolled out. Pale and cold in the clear morning light.

'Sergeant!' he called, still staring at the hand. Men rushed to clear the jumble of debris under the sergeant's swift directions. It wasn't long before the rest of the body emerged, propped upright against the remaining stump of the main mast. When they had finished they moved aside. The Captain looked closely at the corps's face but failed to recognize it. Just then the body's eyes fell open. Some of the men flinched, the Captain stood unmoving. He continued to stare. He couldn't look away from those lifeless eyes. There was something strange about them.

The eyes blinked. It wasn't a body it was a survivor! The captain looked deeper into the eyes. They were not lifeless as he first thought, they were hollow. Empty from the nearness of death.

'Fetch the surgeon.'

How long had she been sitting here? A few days? A few weeks? She couldn't remember. She couldn't remember anything after reading the letter, not even entering the house. She neither slept nor ate. Such things were for the living; they were no longer for her because now she was dead inside. Dead like the wild flower in the vase beside her. Through the fog like gloom of her mind a memory surfaced.

She got up and went to a drawer, was momentarily paused by a bout of dizziness, then took out a parcel. A piece of fine cotton. Inside lay a wildflower she had pressed to preserve it. He was standing at the door when he gave it to her. A freshly picked flower and an admission of his love. Moisture welled up in her eyes and she sobbed at the memory. The house was full of memories.

She burst out the door and into the stormy night. Cold rain mixed with hot tears. She ran and ran, the pain of her loss fought off the dizziness. She ran without knowing where she was going, subconsciously she knew.

She often came here to watch the ocean, to wait for her only true friend, her true love. She was at the cliffs at the boarder of her land. She cast a long gaze out over the churning water, there were no ships. Her lover was gone, why did she watch the ocean? No earthly ship would ever bring him home again. All they had shared was a single kiss, now that's all they would ever have. That kiss would be their last.

Thick dark thunderclouds spread out overhead. Monstrous waves hammered the rock face below. Sea spray flew into the moonlight. Fierce wind pelted into her. The clouds opened up with a thunderclap. Cold rain fell heavily against her but she did not shiver, it was nothing compared to the cold she felt inside

The storm sent waves crashed over the rocks below her.

Waves of sorrow washed through her mind.

Sobs racked her body.

She looked down and realized she was still holding the cloth wrapped flower, his final gift to her. Just then the wind swirled and shrieked around her tearing it from her hand.

It was all she had left of him. She reached out into the void. Screamed his name.

The wind went silent.

Her body overbalanced. Fell. Tumbled through the air.

Dark waves rose up to meet her. And with the weight of a mountain they swallowed her.

'Severe exhaustion. Dehydration. Starvation. Prolonged exposure to the cold. Loss of blood from a puncture wound in his side. Probably broke every bone in his body in that storm. He could be dead any minute. He _should_ be dead now.'

'Will he recover?' Asked the Captain in a tone that conveyed he already guessed the answer.

The surgeon scoffed. 'No. I very much doubt It.' he got to his feet 'this man doesn't need a surgeon he needs a burial.' It was his final and most condemning prognosis. With that he picked up his bag and headed back to the ship.

The Captain took another long look into those empty eyes. Even if this once healthy young man could recover from his wounds, his mind had retreated from him to a place from which it could not hope to return. All men had their limits and this man had been forced way beyond his. Who ever he was when he entered that storm had perished in it. Now all that was left was a human shell. The Captain had seen it many times before. _Catatonic_ was the word he recalled.

It left him with only one option. He knew what he had to do. He took a step closer and slowly and regrettably he drew his saber from the scabbard at his side. He raised his arm high. It would have to be a heavy blow to do this cleanly he reasoned to himself.

The corpselike man's gaze almost by instinct locked onto the sword blade. When it reached its peak something inside his head screamed and the mist from within his eyes suddenly vanished.

The Captain set his face into a harsh mask, ready but unwilling to deliver the death stroke.

The corpselike mans opened his mouth, his voice croaked out a sound.

The Captain hesitated.

'Please' came a pain filled whisper. His gaze meeting the captain's.

'Please' he whimpered again.

'I need…'

He swallowed painfully

'…to live'

The Captain lowered his arm. He looked thoughtful for a moment.

'Why?' he asked, truly curious as to what powerful force compelled this man to fight for life even when his body was clearly ruined and must be in such agony.

The corpselike man seemed to struggle with turning thought to word. His eyes suddenly blazed with passion at the memories flooding his mind. Memories of the woman he loved.

'Please...' he managed a final time then it was too much.

He sagged under the weight of his own emotion, slipped quickly into darkness.

The Captain returned the saber to its scabbard unused. He reached down and felt for a pulse.

'Sergeant! Get a stretcher team together. This man is coming with us.'

The fisherman was returning early. Last nights storm had broken many of the village's boats and his was one of the few to survive. It meant he would free choice of the premium fishing spots for at least the rest of the day. He had risen well before first light and headed out across the now flat sea. He hadn't even cast his first net when he made his first catch. He knew exactly what it was even before he drew up along side it. It would make him famous and he was sure to get many a free drink at the tavern as he retold this fateful tale. It was a mermaid.

The storm had obviously knocked her unconscious. She lay face up, eyes closed, her golden hair fanning out behind her, luminous as it caught the pre-dawn rays. Did all mermaids have hair made of gold he wondered briefly? With a lock of that hair he could _buy _the tavern! He reached over the side and hauled her in.

And almost threw her back out again. She had legs! He did drag her in though, and found she was still breathing. He wrapped her in a blanket and thought of all the fish he wouldn't catch that morning as he turned around and headed back to the village.

**This is probably the last chapter… I'm to lazy to write any more. I love you all and… I give up!**


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